The Arab intellectual community often
complains about the state of professional criticism in the
Arab world, whether of books, journals, music, film, theater,
or visual art. This complaint, which for some intellectuals
has hardened into resentment, may in some cases be excused by
Arab literary critics' over-zealous enthusiasm about cultural
production in the region, but the deplorable state of Arab
literary criticism is indisputable. One indicator of its
failings is the trend toward prolific translation of marginal
Arab poetry into European languages, for without the filter of
competent criticism, many individuals seeking political asylum
pass themselves off as great poets in their native land.

Syrian poet and critic Nouri Jarah
described the Arab cultural scene as amounting to a "black
market" in two articles published two years ago in the
London-based Al Hayat newspaper, and reconfirmed that opinion
to me personally in a phone discussion a few months ago. This
lamentable state, according to Jarah and others, can be traced
to the role played by the personal connections and networking
among most editors and critics of the cultural pages of the
Arab press, both in the Arab world and the diaspora.

Jarah addressed this same issue a few
years ago in the Cairo-based magazine Akhbar Al Adab. In all
his articles, he has explored the predicament of the Arab
creative person, whether in the Arab world or in exile. He
explains that it all begins with al-thaqfa al-rasmiyyah,
which can mean official culture, state sponsored culture,
or the culture of the establishment. Jarah takes issue with
some of the other excuses for this predicament, including the
notion that the intellectual has fallen victim to "popular
culture," as well as what he calls the game of the "margin,"
"marginalized," and "marginalization." The deciding factor of
whether a given individual becomes an established poet, for
example, is simply the "official culture." Other factors like
the "margin" and the "marginalized" are intended for public
consumption and relevant only to purely intellectual issues
like poetry writing. The decisions of culture, Jarah believes,
are based on exchanges of power and influence.

Editors of the cultural pages of Arab
newspapers and magazines claim to maintain objectivity and the
highest professional standards, but Jarah refutes the claim
that their loyalty is first and foremost to their readership
by citing scores of editorial decisions. One interesting case,
although hardly a secret to readers acquainted with the
culture and arts pages of major Arab newspapers, is that of
the late poet Nizar Kabbani. When he was alive and regularly
contributing to a London-based Arab daily, the paper he wrote
for never criticized him within its pages; his importance to
its editor-in-chief and its readership was too great to risk.
While Jarah does not name the paper, at the time of his death
in 1998 Kabbani was writing for the Al Hayat.

Jarah invites the reader beyond the
editing rooms of these newspapers or even their editorial
meetings where they decide who is worthy of being reviewed and
covered, taking the reader all the way to the inner workings
of the editors' minds, using their lingo or jargon that
describes their decisions. Those on the outside will find this
picture quite useful, especially authors, editors, or artists
who might have submitted their creative works for review.
These editors have become seasoned experts in dancing around
the professional standards used to judge literary works. "When
a poem is bad it is justified on the grounds that no better
poetry exists in the poet's country;" when the "review is
biased we consider it evenhanded;" and "when criticism is
harsh and destructive" it is said to be appropriate, perhaps
long overdue to correct some literary defect. Editors of the
cultural pages always have ready-made excuses for every
position or goal that serves their interest. Even more
troubling than the editors' antics is the fact that authors
and intellectuals have become involved in these journalistic
games."

...is there any criticism that could
encourage better poetry by either the "diaspora" or the
"native" group? Jarah's answer offers little solace
because criticism is absent, and even when it exists, it
is hollow and has even lost its purpose...Much of the
criticism in the Arab press, particularly of poetry, has
the smell of bargaining and wheeling and dealing, says
Jarah.

The manipulative decisions of the Arab
press editors and the critics distorts the cultural scene,
both in the homeland and in the diaspora. Jarah draws some
conclusions from his hard examination of the poetic scene.
While he seems nostalgic about early generations of Arab poets
like Badr Shakir al-Sayyab and others, he acknowledges the
talent of many worthy modern poets; his love for poetry led
him to publish and edit a quarterly fully committed to poetry,
called Al Qassida, the Poem. The plethora of modern
poets, many of whom hardly meet professional literary
standards, has produced conflicting assessments of this era's
worthiness. One assessment finds modern poets making rich
contributions to Arab poetry, while the second attributes
poetry's retreat to the same poets and their inferior works.
Clearly, Jarah does not accept the thesis of a "poetry
retreat" or a declined interest in poetry. Instead, he
ascribes this contradictory development to what he labels as
al-hudour al-thaqafi, the cultural presence, which he
equates with a "deadly virus" that emerges at the expense of
the "author's spirit and innovative aesthetic works."

Jarah's main focus, however, is on the
"poetic map" in the diaspora, particularly Europe. He writes
that living in exile has certainly benefitted Arab poets,
especially through interacting with other cultures. But at
what price? The greatest drawback of living alongside
different cultures has been their suffocating effect; many
Arab poets, Jarah adds, have become infatuated with
translating their poetry into foreign languages rather than
focusing on other serious issues pertaining to their literary
profession.

The contributions of Arab poets, both in
the diaspora and the Arab world, has been worthwhile to the
extent that "we can observe different voices," distinguishing
the two groups without allowing these "aesthetic and
linguistic similarities and differences" to compromise "the
two types of poetry." However, is there any criticism that
could encourage better poetry by either the "diaspora" or the
"native" group? Jarah's answer offers little solace because
criticism is absent, and even when it exists, it is hollow and
has even lost its purpose.

Perhaps to the surprise of those who
believe in a healthy creative process, the Arab critic-author
relationship is one of enmity rather than amity. "It is no
exaggeration to say that the modern Arab critic has abandoned
his classical image as an objective party," Jarah writes,
"failing to acquire a new one except that offered by some
examples which present him as narcissistic and subjective.
Perhaps unconsciously, he has become preoccupied with denying
an old cliche that the critic is an unsuccessful author." For
those critics, "the poet has become a creative rival,"
challenging another creative person, the critic, who in turn
"ceases to be an effective reader." Thus the relationship
between poet and reader has transformed into one of hostility,
with poets rebutting critics with harsh and reprimanding
language, questioning "how could would you write this about
me!"

Much of the criticism in the Arab press,
particularly of poetry, has the smell of bargaining and
wheeling and dealing, says Jarah. This state of criticism
perhaps contributes to Arab poetry's failure "to discover the
questions of poetry and creativity, not to mention poetry's
lack of standards and criterion which guarantee a trust in it"
as a literary form. With its importance in Arab culture,
poetry has even become a vehicle for "the poet to achieve
other agendas, social for instance." Criticism, Jarah laments,
"has withdrawn from the cultural scene and the critic has fled
out of sight except in the happy occasions."

The rush to translate Arab poetry into
European languages, particularly English, has compounded the
problems already afflicting modern writing. The substantial
increase of its translation distorts the image of Arab poetry
in general, including the importance of the poets in their own
native poetic environment.

One can suggest a two-fold criteria
against which we judge the decision to translate Arab poetry,
especially of the modern generation. We will not examine the
art and the quality of translation, for this is another issue
entirely.

First, are the poets being translated the
best Arab culture has to offer to the non-Arabic speaking
world? A related consideration is whether these poets
developed unique methods, means of expression, imagery, or a
specific language that elevate them to some universal level,
thus worthy of being translated? Today most of those
translated poets hardly achieved recognition in their own
countries, and certainly not the Arab world at large. While
popularity is hardly a test of literary quality, the
translated poets fail on this level as well. As for their
contributions, Jarah, who describes the rush to translation as
"the game of translation," considers many of these poets
"untalented."

Second, do the contributions of these
poets convey a political message worthy of being heard by the
non-Arabic speaking world? Since the language of poetry is
universal, why not introduce the world to our causes and
grievances through poetry? This was the case in the late 1960s
and throughout the 1970s and even later, when the poetry of
Mahmoud Darwish and his fellow "poets of resistance" were
translated into Western languages. Certainly politics was not
the only criteria that legitimized translating Darwish's and
others' poetry -- the resistance poets have distinguished
themselves poetically as well as through the powerful messages
they conveyed. Excluding their lip service to the struggle of
the Palestinian people and other popular pan-Arab causes, much
of the modern poetry is apolitical. The collapse of the former
Soviet Union and the rise of conservative Arab hegemony in
Arab media both in the region and the diaspora have convinced
many poets to steer away from writing on social injustice,
political repression (except by Israel, Turkey, Afghanistan,
and at times by Iran) and women's issues lest they risk being
accused as "socialist realists!" The result is dull poetry
that, when translated, conveys little meaning in either form
or content.

We cannot help asking why we have seen
such a rush to translation with such texts. Although the term
"globalization" has become so common in Arab discourse, with
analyses of its "deadly consequences" dominating vast space on
the ideas and opinion pages of the Arab press, translating
poetry increasingly appears to be one of its unpublicized
results. Just as leaders and critics warn of the damage the
"globalization" process is wreaking in Third World societies
and cultures, the Arab included, the new trends in translation
have caused equal damage to the culture.

The policy of granting political asylum
to Arab poets fleeing repressive regimes in their countries,
and the European environment in which these poets take up
residence appear to have more influence on whether their works
are translated than the merit of their poetry. Many poets,
some of limited literary talent, present themselves to the
European host countries as "great poets" in their native
lands, while their only qualifying credentials are those of
successful political refugees. "They are transformed from
individuals fleeing repression into individuals benefiting
from repression," writes Jarah.

Whenever politics and poetry encounter
one another, the former corrupts the latter, no matter when
and where -- whether in the Arab world or in Europe.
Politically correct poetry insures its authors positions,
awards, and invitations to cultural festivals in their country
and around the Arab world, and even in Europe, the U.S.,
Australia, and Canada. As soon as Arab poets set foot in the
lands of freedom, their fellow nationals start translating
their poetry into the language of the country granting
political asylum. It makes no difference what type of poetry;
it can be in "defense of nationalism, patriotism, party
loyalty, tribalism, localism, factionalism, or joint personal
memoirs." Their poetic presence then becomes a part of the
"idea of freedom" and an example of "the victims of
repression" regardless of the literary status of the poet.

Living in exile proves beneficial to
certain segments of Arab poets. Personal friendship networks
in the European continent have replaced professional standards
in judging and evaluating works of poetry. As Jarah writes,
"the Danish reader had his own Iraqi poet; the Swedish his
Kurdish poet; the Norwegian his Lebanese poet; the Swiss his
Syrian; the Bulgarian his Jordanian; the Spanish his Egyptian;
the German his Yemeni, and the French his Algerian."

Translating modern Arab poetry has become
a "game" indeed. According to the unwritten rules of this
game, it is impossible for a poet to be read in more than one
European country since the precondition of being read is
having a translation. Since it is unlikely that these poets
will be translated unless they live in a particular European
country, the poet must seek political asylum in the very
country where he would like to be translated. Ironically, "the
more repression intensifies and the tragedies unfold in the
Arab world, Kurdistan, and Iran... the more prosperous the
conditions of the poet," for he receives invitation to panels
and conferences, events legitimizing his status as a refugee
and a victim of repression, and he subsequently secures an
asylum.

Criticism, Jarah laments, "has
withdrawn from the cultural scene and the critic has
fled out of sight except in the happy
occasions."

"We lose our nations and causes, but why
should we also lose poetry?" Jarah lamented to a friend. He
added that his position should not be misunderstood as against
translating poetry or literature into other languages; rather
he believes that translation needs to be done seriously and
according to well-studied plans, involving poets and authors
as well as institutions and translators.

Having worked as an editor, critic,
columnist, reporter, and himself a poet, Jarah paints a gloomy
picture of the cultural scene, a picture confirmed on the
cultural pages of Arab magazines and newspapers. His love for
Arabic poetry prevents him from remaining silent while poetry
is mocked through the rush to translation. He writes that it
is not acceptable to single out a poet with limited talent and
introduce him into a European language, claiming that he is
the best the Arab culture has to offer, while forgetting that
modern Arab poetry has a rich history consisting of different
aesthetic schools and generations. He adds that one finds
little presence in European languages of great poets like Badr
Shakir al-Sayyab, Mohammad al-Maghout, Onsi al-Haj, Salah Abd
al-Sabour or Khalil Hawi, while these same languages abound
with translations of poets who are hardly accomplished in
their own poetic culture.

Jarah's assessment is shared by Lebanese
playwright, poet, critic, and journalist Paul Shaoul.
"Translation is an exchange of services" rather than a
"creative cultural activity," Shaoul said in an interview
published in the Lebanese An Nahar newspaper after
participating in a poetry festival in France. When Shaoul
addressed the Arab poetry the French have translated, he
declared "your translations are unjust and impractical, and
even forged." Shaoul went on to name important Arab poets like
Said Akl, Amin Nakhle, Elias Abou Shabakeh, Mohammad
al-Maghout, and others whose works were not translated. "Thus
I told them (the French), if you do not know the real pioneers
in Arab poetry it is because the translations are subject to
political considerations and political institutions that have
nothing to do with poetry. Instead they represent personal
relationships and exchanges of services."

Echoing Jarah's earlier argument, Shaoul
addressed the French literary community: "Do you want every
poet to come to Paris and live there for years in order to be
translated?" The French admitted, according to Shaoul, that
"translations used to be the result of relations and
connections first and last and regardless of the poetic
value." The response Shaoul received from his French hosts to
his next question was quite telling: "'Do you treat the
Spanish, Greek, American, and Polish poetry the same way you
treat the Arab?' Some laughed and said: 'this is quite a
different matter.'"

This disturbing picture applies not only
to poetry, but also to other Arab cultural endeavors, Jarah
continues. He describes the dominant forces as the "cultural
militias." They use the carrot and the stick approach,
employing incentives as well as subtle threats, at times going
so far as to deprive authors and critics of their livelihoods,
namely their jobs. Membership in the "militia" is not arranged
through contracts but rather through "aesthetic and
"ideological causes," and soon the "militia" becomes an
"aesthetic gang excluding its dissident members" from this
newspaper or that magazine's cultural page, or withdrawing an
invitation to this panel or that festival.

Most disorienting is the fact that Arab
cultural activities follow the same traditions, whether
editors and critics or poets are working in Beirut and Amman
or in London and Paris. An editor working in London makes the
same decisions as his counterpart in Beirut, easily following
his basic, primitive personal and sectarian impulses, laying
to rest the naive assumption that freedom from censorship and
oppression, and for that matter even from want, guarantees an
enlightened and bright future for Arab culture, whether in
poetry or literary criticism in general.